deciphering the dead

[OPEN] deciphering the dead

Feuille Posts: N/A

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02-03-2014, 03:25 PM

Feuille

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     As time erupts, the Sun finds itself closing sweaty eyelids, Moon drifting away with the currents, Stars scribbled out by permanent markers - Day has ended. A trail of night welcomes, but this night is disguised. Much like a shadow the world shifts around in a blanket, but something sinister is heard, snarling off in the distance. It has no direction, only leeches in a poisonous stench, coming closer, crawling into the water, into our minds, and into our souls. Forbids the eyes to see, permeates our precious posy, and locks limbs while the world is corrupt. We hold on tight for the ride.

~ ~ ~

     Loorien spins into vigil, pressing palms together, interlocking fingers, squeezing hope tight, grasping all it knows inside of Pandora's box. There in the measly bottom corner, while horrors wreak rampant above, remains of a body shake as a terrible metamorphosis overcomes a precious soul. She was taken in her element, the leaves around carry her blood and support dangling folds of maimed skin and tissue. But her heart beats weakly as infection pours inside it blackening the lifeblood, stunning the beat - for a moment. The acidic chemical of whatever the demon plagued her, races into the center of her lifeline and reacts, shooting spasms down her nimble limbs, shocking the stem of her brain. As if she were levitated by an exorcism, the girl is brought to her feet. Eyes open wildly - mechanically - and the black of her surrounding world holds her up as if she is a puppet. No words can find her tongue. No sound can fill her ears. The puppeteer flicks his wrist and she walks - a dreadful sight, a nightmare - into the darkness.

     Feuille finds numbness creeping through mechanical legs. She is unaware of any other feeling. She can only think of forward. Driven into trees, staggering down ravines, falling over logs, she has no control of herself. Her entire right side is lined with massive, thick lacerations that carve deeply though her flesh, exposing mucus-like pus far beyond the term grotesque. She reeks of foul sulfur, methane radiating from rotten wounds and blackened blood. Her coat, caked in clots, appears wet and black until further inspection. Orange irises reveal bloody eye whites, a milky wash glazed over pupils. It's a miracle she can make out shapes of things that lay ahead. The disease drags her to a clearing, faces her south, lips hanging, dripping chords of saliva that pool around her feet.

    Snow falls, dusting the blood, freezing the body. The puppeteer flicks his wrist and squeezes her sides, a murderous moan howls over the barren trees and she falls to the ground once again.

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